


you've got stars (they're in your eyes)

by inmadhouses



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A little? angst, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Royalty, Royal Louis, a lot of flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmadhouses/pseuds/inmadhouses
Summary: as the crown prince of a small and rather traditional nation, louis got more than few things on his plate. the fact that he can’t help but want to kiss the boy who has stars in his eyes and constellations in his heart is pretty high on that list.as the youngest royal baker ever to be under the patronage of the monarchy, harry has got more than a few things on his plate. the fact that the crown prince of the royal household is basically a frat boy hiding in the body of a composed young man is pretty high on his list.or the one where harry is completely oblivious and louis has never been taught how to appropriately show attraction and affection to other men.





	you've got stars (they're in your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GMTYUniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMTYUniverse/gifts).



The thing about the nobility, in Louis’ mind at least, is that it’s all pretty much a load of bull.

Sure, it’s a somewhat interesting concept about a century or two ago, where kings and queens were more than just a symbol to its people, their roles less ceremonial and more practical. But the practice of it in modern society? More or less (and Louis is inclined to say more) useless.

And that’s saying a lot, because he is after all, a prince. The crown prince as a matter of fact, and in his not so humble opinion, the most annoying fucking thing about it are all the rules; the formalities, the clothes, the absolute sobriety that is required to keep a straight face through almost all royal functions. (The last of which being the absolute worst.)  
It’s not as though he has a drinking problem, it’s just that he likes the noise it comes with. The white noise. That buzz. Because silent decorum isn’t really his thing. The raucousness and cacophony of sound is. It’s what helps him breathe.  
  
When the rules and the confines of royalty drowns him daily, it’s the chaos and chance and complete lack of control that gets him through the day.

But with the loudness of letting loose comes with the risks of him saying or doing something he’s not supposed to and throwing up into the rose bushes, leaving his security detail to cart him off with all the subtlety of a bus. Which was fine when he was a teen and not the crown prince since his older sister, affable and graceful Lottie, was always there to impress in his stead.

But life had a few change in plans along the way.

Once upon a time fourth in line to the throne, Louis’ direct descent to crown princeship happened overnight when both his grandfather (the then king) and uncle (the then crown prince) perished in a most unfortunate automobile accident. His father inherited the throne and Louis suddenly finds himself next in line to said throne.

Worst of all, Lottie (in all of her luxury not being a crown prince) soon after departed on her independent and public eye evading solo tour of the world.

When Louis’ father took his place as head of state, the weight of carrying the monarchy into the 21st century landed heavily on his shoulders amidst the pervading thought that had planted its seed in the mind of the nation in the time of mourning; the abolishment of the monarchy. The people, Louis thought, had the right idea. But as inexperienced as the king was when he first ascended the throne, greatness flowed through his veins. As once just a spare heir, he was more one with the people and their plight than any prince could have been from their ivory tower. And so, having won over the affection of the people and temporarily averted the dissolution of the monarchy, the weight of the proverbial crown along with all the duties and responsibilities it comes with landed on Louis.

He learns to behave quickly though; he drinks tonic water with no gin, takes only a sip of champagne at toasts and tries to stay out of headlines. And he’s done well, he really has, the media has even gone so far as to say he has matured with his time in the army, citing that he finally looks like the fine young man who would become the honorable and just future leader of the small European country. (He served the obligatory six months so he doesn’t know what they’re on about, really.)

Louis begrudgingly steps into his big boy prince shoes with diplomatic duties, a fully armed 24/7 security detail and fucking formalities while Lottie became the princess of the people, with occasional sightings of her street food adventures Asia, village building efforts Africa, and whatever else she was off doing in one country or another.

Considering that he’s kept his head down for three years, coupled with the absence of his parents who are away on an official state visit , and the god awful dinner of forced merriment and political talk sprinkled with romantic overtures, he snaps easily enough and slips the newbie security detail for the night. Instead of turning in early to and bid farewell to the reason for all the forced merriment (some nobility or another on their state visit) Louis heads straight for the rager in the domestic assistant’s quarters he’d heard from the whispers.

Small parties are not uncommon amongst those who served in the palace, the official household for the royal family having so much space with so little people allowed in and out makes for little possibility of mishaps. So once at the domestic quarters and surrounded by unfamiliar faces (those who probably had better, more important things to do than to have crossed paths with him before), Louis promptly makes it his mission to forget that he is the crown prince of Arrestovia, the land of butter that could leave eyeballs permanently stuck to the top of the skull. (It sounds rather ridiculous, but it is the nation’s proudest export.)

For the night, Louis aims to drink so much he’d forget that the reason they have good butter is because of the glorious grass, herbs, and flowers they have, that is the perfect amount of every nutrient when combined with the very specific type of river water they have running through the country. Said great grass and sweet water keeps cows happily fed, which makes amazing cream with many pleasant subtle taste notes, which in turn makes beautiful butter. Facts he could really live without, especially after the tedious function in which he required the additional fortification of his official uniform, hosting a ball in honour of the visiting family of nobility in the absence of his parents (a ploy that he is sure has been concocted by both his mother, the queen, and the mother of the very lovely lady something or another).

It’s not the first time he attempts going incognito to a party in the palace, he’s learned from a young age that realising a prince is in your midst can kill the mood of a soiree faster that you can say buzzkill, but he’s still surprised at the ease of slipping past notice. Of course, those muscles having not been stretched in a while makes for a few kinks so he ends up as an armful, crashing into a not-so-stranger, the newly hired royal baker. (A bigger deal in Arrestovia than in any other country considering that the nation's pride is butter and the many different pastries you can make with said butter.)

Far too many G&T’s in and rather hiccoughy thanks to three years of almost complete sobriety, Louis is completely unlike the intricate facade of composed he’s built over the years. Something which he hopes would escape notice of the specimen he all but crashed into.

The royal baker is beautiful and vibrant and Louis feels like he’s seeing colour for the first time it’s so blinding and intense. He is also tall and toned, probably from all his time kneading dough, Louis thinks.  
But as he thinks just that, the words, “you’re pretty,” slip out from his lips instead.

He's never exactly outwardly admitted to being attracted to other men before but here he is calling beautiful bakers he's just met "pretty." (Although "pretty" seems to be an understatement here.)

The not-so-stranger chuckles a thanks in return, uncertainty in his voice, but dimples indented his cheeks all the same. With his windswept hair and bright eyes and glorious wide smile, Louis is suddenly sure he’s seeing stars. He says a little prayer in his head, grateful that he had decided to come to the party after all. But his brain and his mouth don’t seem to be cooperating. Words seem to slip by and evaporate after their eyes met.

“You have stars,” Louis points out instead, “They’re in your eyes.”

And suddenly he is all too aware that he might have just fallen into a dream. A dream of emerald green with stars in them.

Said emerald green is staring back blankly, expression on the rest of his face quite unreadable. Louis realises, with a pang in his heart, quickly followed by giddy and abrupt fluttering in his stomach that it’s like they’re both magnets who connected as soon as they’re within range. They’ve not officially met before, with a few dozen people within the confines of the palace at all times, not including the guards and security detail, it’s not hard to see why.

The wide smile pulling at their lips now though, is hard to ignore.

“You’re pretty drunk right now aren’t you, Your Highness?” The-non-stranger stranger royal baker asks, his voice dropping a few registers for the latter part of the question.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Louis admits with a twang in his voice.

He's never wanted to come out of the closet so hard in his life. To be fair though, it is a large and rather well stocked societal pressure imposed closet with all the comforts money can buy.

The eyes with stars in them scan across the room quickly before suggesting they do the smart person thing, “Let’s get some water in you before you completely crash this party by passing out or dying.”

  
A reasonable person would have agreed. A slightly tipsy person of average intellect would have probably accepted the offer for water and proceed to drink said water. But, as life would have it, Louis is neither of those things. And so, the last thing he remembers before seeing his guard’s face scanning the crowd behind the not-so-stranger stranger’s are the words;

“Well, you better get in me then because you’re 70% water and I’m thirsty.”

Not his finest moment, Louis will admit, but he has been grappling with the fact that he, the crown prince of a small nation tucked between the great countries that are Spain and France, may be gay since he was fourteen. The arrival and completely coincidental meet-not-so-cute he had just shared with one of the most accomplished bakers in the country had only complicated matters for his public (yet completely intoxicated) persona.

In his less than sober state, Louis pats his new acquaintance’s chest awkwardly and stumbles away to dodge his bodyguard (and embarrassment) while one Harry Styles stands there, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

//

As the crown prince’s personal guard, Niall is all too aware that it's his job to worry about Louis.

Despite the fact that there is a full-fledged security team involved in his daily activities, there are times when he can't help but feel so alone in it. Partly because the guards don’t really see their servitude to the crown as something more than a job, but mostly because the prince doesn’t seems to be even the slightest bit bothered by the constant, overhanging possibility of something bad befalling him.

(The difference in opinion they had over the number of bodyguards he needed was more than enough to illustrate that.)

That’s not to say that the prince is reckless by any margin, he is far more astute than Niall would ever hope to be, constantly perusing the possibilities and calculating consequences. (A skill he’s had to quickly hone after his father became king, Niall is sure.) But the prince is deeply wound up, which in the kind of position that he's in, can be just as dangerous as being reckless.

It's been a little over six months since he's been at the crown prince’s service, and he knows a livewire when he sees one. He has been a prince all his life and a crown prince for only about 6 years, which makes for a lot of repressed crazy and one surprise bad decision from a complete catastrophe. Like slipping his bodyguards and attending getting blind drunk for no damned reason.

“You’re hungover,” Niall says, deliberately too loudly as he rides in the same car as the prince, escorting him to his appointments for the day.

Louis winces as he feels the full weight of Niall’s stare, but keeps the calm facade on anyway.

“Does that worry you?”

Luckily for everyone in the vicinity of the palace the night before, the new young guards assigned to Louis for the night had the good sense to call Niall instead of sounding the red alert. Niall locates him quickly enough through palace surveillance system, promptly sending them to retrieve him from the party at thee domestic quarters.

The prince’s complete aloofness is astounding to him, to say the least.

Niall exhales, resisting the urge to rub at his temples, "Well, Your Highness, I’m in charge of your security and wellbeing, so yes, it does.”

“I’m alive aren’t I?” Louis says, his brow arching under his sunglasses signalling that he thinks Niall is being overly dramatic.

(And he’s not wrong, in all their time knowing each other, they had never been one for formalities.)

“Did it not occur to you,” Niall says, through half-gritted teeth, “That I could lose my job?”

Louis’ decidedly ungraceful snort breaks the ice just enough for Niall’s shoulders to loosen ever so slightly.

The prince had initially been cold and brusque when they were introduced, which was to be expected, but Louis warms up considerably quickly and Niall realises how he plays off his vulnerability as distance to maintain some semblance of sanity. There’s a quiet longing in the way that he carries himself, wanting to connect with others yet understanding all too well the wall that stands tall between them.

And if you asked Niall, it’s either a very good idea or a horrendously bad one to be best friends with your employer. The good, obviously, is that it makes for it to be infinitely easier to spend practically all your time with someone as their dedicated shadow. The bad? The fact that it is infinitely more difficult to act for their good when you’re so intimately acquainted.

Louis is prattling on about making the fool of himself the night before, in front of the Royal Baker, when a small prickle of an idea creeps into his mind. He brushes it off but with the prince still whining about that “God awful encounter with the Royal Baker” half a day later, the idea evolves into a full blown scheme.

//

Harry never in a million years thought that he’d end up in the employment of the royal household.

Sure, it had its perks; access to nobility, bragging rights, a front row seat of watching all the royal cliches play out in real time, but he never quite thought to aim so high to be bestowed with the honour of being the Royal Baker. He’d stumbled into the palace completely by chance occurrence; one that would not have happened if he hadn’t been stationed for his national service to the unit of one Niall Horan, the son of a Lord or Earl or another who is basically a walking contradiction.

The present day personal guard of the Crown had renounced his nobility just before signing up to serve in the armed forces. After two years in the military, he was assigned to training the national service conscripts, then assigned to the protective detail of the foreign minister’s office, and finally, to the palace because royal blood doesn’t just go away when you turn your back to it.

Perhaps it was a kinship or a sense of brotherhood in arms, but Niall recommends Harry to become an apprentice pâtissier when a slot becomes available in the royal kitchen. Within six months, Harry had become the clear successor to the retiring Royal Baker (much to the envy of six other recommended apprentices of more noble descent).

His days as the Royal Baker are all pretty standard; he’s the first up and in to prep the kitchen, he monitors the milking of the royal herd, he gets his hands a little dirty with the butter churning and kneading, he does some baking that often requires some flourish or another (always in accordance to the royal menu, of course), and he’s the last to leave the kitchen. Of course, he then unwinds with a drink or two at his quarters. Occasionally, he hosts a tipples and pizza night, but that’s about the highlight of his social calendar.

The days go by, mostly without incident. The most excitement there had been was when the crown prince shows up at the kitchen staff get together celebrating the success of a royal visit without the queen’s regimented instruction, and hitting on him.

Harry mostly forgets about the encounter until Niall texts him that he’s bringing someone around the domestic quarters and he should “be cool” about it. He’s confused as to what it means, but the next thing he knows, he and Liam are getting back to his modestly sized quarters when he sees the crown prince caught in a headlock, laughing and spluttering words she could not make out as Niall laughed, holding him in said headlock rather firmly.

He blinks at the unexpected house guest, before waving awkwardly at them, “Hi.”

  
It’s at that moment that they both soberly lock eyes for the first time. Louis’ eyes, filled with mirth, widened slightly and he shoves at Niall forcefully, straightening himself and sending him a grin.

“Harry, isn’t it?”

The said unexpected house guest is addressing him directly and Harry resists the urge to shake his head to clear out his vision on the off chance he’s hallucinating. He settles for an sheepish grin instead as Niall loosens his tie and heads to the kitchenette to crack open a couple of beers for everyone.

Liam takes the presence of the royal in the domestic quarters a lot better than him, evidently, and it’s all remarkably casual. The prince insists that nobody refers to him royally or formally and Niall merely rolls his eyes in the background.

“It has come to His Royal Highness’ attention recently that he has no friends which has resulted in him being unable to act normal in social situations,” Niall says before raising the beer in his hands to his lips.

“Fuck off, Horan.”

“I could but then you’d have zero friends.”

  
Harry laughs more than he remembers and he feels as though he’s floating amongst them. They drink a bit too much beer and Prince Louis’ jokes get more obscene as the night wore on. Harry isn’t sure if he likes them. More specifically, he’s not sure how much he likes having the a prince in his quarters making dirty jokes at him.

After some amount of beers and several violent rounds of zombie killing on the PlayStation, Louis is somehow officially a friend. And when Harry losses yet another game, raising the spectre of doubt that he’s throwing the game on purpose in order to make Louis feel good about his skills, he declares a little too enthusiastically that he’s just tired.

Niall and Liam chortle at his excuses but Louis turns to him.

“Sure you are,” he says, voice pitched low, “‘Cause you’ve been running through my mind all day.”

For a moment it seems like there’s no one else in the room. Louis chuckles shortly after a pregnant pause and Harry just blinks, unsure, for the second time that night if his senses are betraying him.

But a few nights later, Harry figures that it’s Louis’ default way of interacting. He never really knows what to do either, so he ends up just standing there awkwardly a lot of the times. Sometimes he feels a hot prickle up his next, sometimes he blushes ever so slightly, but most of the time, he ends up quickly changing the subject after a short silence.

It’s a little after Louis’ fifth visit, after it becomes apparent that the pick up line he tried on the night they met is just one of many, Harry picks up the courage to ask Niall about it, “Is he... always like that?”

“Like what?” Niall responds distractedly, eyes glued to the screen on the telly, a football game or another playing, “All dad jokes and corny pick up lines?”

“Yeah.”

Niall pasuses at that, suddenly finding the bottles of beer he’s clearing somewhat really interesting.

“He’s the crown prince,” Niall then says dismissively, “There’s a lot that goes on in his mind and no appropriate place to let it out. You don’t expect him to hit the Prime Minister’s daughter with some of that material, do you?”

Harry isn’t exactly sure why, but his heart sinks a little at that. He steadfastly ignores the feeling of hot lead punching him squarely in the gut and just nods. It takes a few more weeks and several completely unnecessary kitchen visits from the Crown Prince before Harry decides to do something about it. The first time is when he’s tasked with the refreshments for a movie charity gala. Obviously, it meant that he’d have to prepare batches of his suggested canapé menu for the Prince’s private consumption, not like that’s a problem. But Harry is surprising nervous whilst waiting for the after hours royal kitchen visit.

When Louis arrives, he’s a little clipped and straight to business about it.

“Alright, what d’we got?” He asks, marching into the kitchen with Niall hot on his heels, both looking rather worse for wear after, presumably, coming off of a full day of official princely duties. Niall’s always in an immaculate black suit but Louis’ navy blue one meant it was a rather formal day. ("Just some tedious bullshittery," Louis would presumably start whining about later.)

He’s never been so glad that he’s good at his job in his entire life. Lifting the food dome with a flourish, Harry starts listing the refreshments he’s prepared.

“Bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers.”

“That’s hot,” Louis remarks, taking a step closer to the food, and by proxy, him next to the food suggestively eying him and not the food.

“Champagne deviled eggs with caviar.”

“Classy.”

“Seared salmon with a sweet whiskey glaze."

“Keep going.”

“Strawberry tartlets with vanilla mascarpone.”

“Don’t stop now,” Louis wiggles his eyebrow, taking another step closer to him.

“And mini key lime pies.”

“Beautiful."

Harry can’t help but repress a bit of smile if he’s being completely honest.

“You know, I was hoping you’d throw in some pizza in there,” Louis says after taking a taste of the mini key lime pie.

“‘Cause you’d love a pizza him?” Niall remarks off-handedly (and teasingly, maybe?) through a mouthful of deviled eggs.

The comment takes them by surprise and both their heads snap around to look at Niall, almost as if they’d forgotten about his presence in the kitchen. It was a late kitchen call and it’s just them three but still.

“Because they are crowd favourite, thank you very much,” Louis defends himself as he picks at the tiny food Harry’s prepared for their tasting that evening.

Niall merely rolls his eyes at that and pops a jalapeno into his mouth.

Louis turns to him as he picks up the salmon.

“Is there a hint of raisin in that whiskey sauce?” He asks, thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but that’s not the only thing that’s raisin’ in here,” Harry says, voice dripping in innuendo.

And, if it hadn’t been clear enough, he smirks and turns around to grab some of the cocktails prepared for their little taste session, hearing Louis pretend to choke on the boneless fish behind him.

Things get… a little heated between them after that.

And it’s almost entirely not Harry’s fault. He’s an upstanding citizen working in the royal kitchen but there’s just something about trading suggestive (and often time downright lewd) comments with his employer that he can’t resist. It just becomes part of his schedule. Especially after that evening in the kitchen where it’s obvious that the crown prince can try to push as many buttons as he wants, but when it comes to his button being pushed... Well, he’s not that great at that.

Louis is hanging around the kitchen, again, complete in his formal garb after one particularly tedious dinner party, munching on uneaten canapés and groaning about just how tedious these affairs are when things start getting a little (unsurprisingly) crude again.

“You know, I might not go down in history, but I’ll go down on you,” Louis says, a little tipsy off of the champagne bottle that just moments ago was dangling off his lips.

  
It’s a good look on him, a little pink in the cheeks, hair gelled down but a little tousled, and not at all something that helps with the tremendous joy Harry has developed specifically for these moments.

(If he's being honest, there isn't a bad look on Louis ever. And considering the only other person he’s admitted this crush to is his sister via text and she was completely unhelpful, merely asking for “all the important facts; name, age, height, shape of ass,” he's not quite sure how to proceed.)

“Am I on your grocery list? Because I feel like you're checking me out here,” Harry winks back.

His response makes the the otherwise so very appropriately etiquetted royal turn a shade pinker, and that's just how things just are between them. Both taking microsteps forward, further and further from the edge to see who falls first. And quite frankly, Harry is equal parts terrified and interested to see what it all culminates to. (His sacking? His slow but sure spiral into insanity? Who knows.)

Louis is looking him up and down at that point, and Harry swears that his gaze lingers on his lips half a second longer than it should. But just when it looks like he’s about to say something, Niall pops in and mumbles something about them having to clear out before the queen walks in on this sexathon in the making.

He wants to laugh at the bitter irony.

Because it’s all very unbelievable and utterly ridiculous. But what’s more ridiculous is when Niall unexpectedly shows up at his place the next day and plonks himself down, sweaty after his regular a.m. run.

“What the fuck was that last night?” He asks, going straight for the jugular, no casual tiptoeing around the subject.

Harry feels a flush rising from his neck.

“What was what?”

“That thing, last night, with the flirting, and all the other nights before that too while we're at it.”

“It was a joke,” he shrugs.

“A joke,” Niall deadpans, “I don’t know about you but I don’t tell my friends that I want to choke on their dick as a joke.”

The flush deepens, “Well— I mean—”

Niall just stares at him as he struggles for words.

After a few more seconds of uncomfortable silence, Niall steals the toast from his hand, “Look, I don’t know how to break it to you, but Lou’s kind of been hitting on you for the better part of half a year now, and if you feel the same way, you should do something about it because it is painful to watch the two of you dance this two left footed dance.”

Harry blinks at his friend.

Just like the first time Niall showed up with Louis, he feels the urge to shake his head to ensure he’s not hallucinating.

“You said that’s how he is with everyone.”

“Have you ever heard him joke about me having stars in my eyes?”

“I—”

“Your shit, Styles.”

“What?”

“Get it together.”

Niall demolishes the toast after having said his peace and leaves, but not before vaguely making a remark about how Louis doesn’t have anything on his itinerary until lunch.

His mind fill with thoughts of what if's. What if he pretends that Niall says nothing? What if they carry on picking at the delicate sheet until one of them tears? What if he waits for Louis to come out before he says anything? What if through all these thoughts, he cracks sooner rather then later and Louis reciprocates and they cause a royal scandal? What if Louis abdicates? What if for all the months and years of their imaginary life playing out in his head, Louis doesn't feel the same way about him after all?

He doesn’t really recall making his way to Louis’ but yet he finds himself standing at his door, knuckles rapping decisively on them.

It happens faster than his mind can register it and before he can undo the knocking or turn around to make run for it, he hears movement on the other side. Harry contemplates hightailing back to his quarters but then there he was, squinting at him, half asleep, looking equal parts hungover and perfectly yet regally bedraggled.

The sight of Louis, sleepy but cosy, makes Harry smile softly. All the thoughts that pervade seconds prior melt away and he thinks this is exactly like when he was seven and his dad takes him to the pool every evening so he can practise being unafraid. (He never really got the hang of swimming but at least he’s not afraid of drowning anymore, so he considers it a win.)

“Haz?” Louis croaks, voice scratchy and low as he opens the door wider at the sight if him.

The sound of his voice makes it hard to breathe. He wants to say that he’s his exact fantasy. That he’s all that he ever thinks about.

But the words slip by and evaporate the moment their eyes meet.

It’s exactly then that Harry realises that he hasn’t exactly planned what he wanted to say. It’s almost enough for him to turn around and then attempt to make it seem like Louis dreamed it all when he inevitably brings it up.

Instead he just reels himself in and says, “Do I know you?”

Louis’ eyebrows scrunch together, too tired to follow what would have been an obvious set up.

“Because you look a lot like my next boyfriend.”

For some unknown reason Harry is immensely proud that his voice doesn’t waver one bit.

“What?” He says, sounding ten times more awake than last, but with a slight humoured but outraged laugh threatening to fall from his lips. Like Harry had just suggested he jump off of a cliff armed with nothing but one helium balloon to cushion his inevitable crash.

There’s a thunderous beat of his heart slapping against his chest when those damned eyes meets his own. His stupid shadow smile is contagious and utterly heart wrenching, and Harry almost feels stupid for the blush creeping up under his intense gaze.

Harry stays silent.

There are footsteps, a shadow creeping into view in the corner of his eye line when the panic kicks into high gear.

“The first time we met, you hit on me!” Harry blurts out.

“Yeah,” he takes a step back before motioning for Harry to follow him into the room, “The first time we met, six months ago, I hit on you.”

Louis shuts the door softly behind them and it’s like the Titanic is sinking in his gut.

“Oh.”

There are butterflies everywhere and he knows he’s playing with fire when he lifts his eyes to meet Louis’ gaze again. He only shakes his head, a small smile tangled between his lips.

Louis takes a small step closer to him and it’s like they’re balancing awkwardly on the step, facing each other nose to nose. He looks vulnerable and unsure but barrels ahead anyway. “And then Niall started bringing me round to yours and I’d already started down that stupid flirting rabbit hole so I just thought—”

“You’d proceed to shamelessly flirt at me over the course of six months?”

“Basically,” he shrugs awkwardly, voice croaky but oddly determined.

"And you never considered that you might have been onto something when I started flirting back?"

Another shrug.

Silence falls over them for a second. As if a reflex, Louis follows that up quickly to ensure that there aren’t any mixes messages being sent, “We’re both pretty terrible at this, aren’t we?”

Harry chuckles, relief and another feeling he can’t quite place hitting him like a tonne of bricks. It feels like he’s on cloud nine, and all he knows is he wants to grab hold of him and kiss him… or something.

And they’re just standing there again, in the silence of their realisation.

All that matters in that moment is the way Louis is looking at him now. As if they’re back at the kitchen, hiding from the commotion from just beyond the walls and he feels his fingers already itching to grab hold of him just so he knows it’s real.

Then Harry takes the plunge, hurtling over the edge they'd been balanced on all this time. The first touch is gentle, tentative, just the soft press of lips against lips, and he inhales sharply. The kiss is feathery and delicate, something so unlike the majority of the nights they have together.

Harry can’t tell who initiates it, but somehow their arms are around one another and the world around them quietens around in the moment.  
As if it’s just the two of them, somewhere far away.

They eventually do pull away, and Harry feels as though he is seeing through a haze.

“Are you sure you’re the royal baker and not the maid?” Louis says after a beat.

“‘Cause you’re sweeping me off my feet here.”

Harry blinks, his heart now slowing to a calm, even beat. He just shakes his head and pulls Louis in again, breathing him in deeply. Maybe he can't exactly come out, out. Louis definitely can't. But he's okay with that.

What they have is enough.


End file.
